Poet, Soldier


Painting is by Frida Kahlo
Poet, Soldier
Dismembered limbs
Lie in disarray
At clawed feet
Of my emotional
A hand lifts itself
On its elbow
Propping other
As it swipes air
For an excalibur
Season has turned inimical
they say baring fangs and
Sharpened teeth, game
of life is now of survivors
Between hunters, hunted
Where does a poet
Fit in I ask myself, sundry
We who duel with words
Delivering razor
Sharp wizardry
They jeered, laughed
There is no more room
Here for bleeding hearts
Go away, find another
World ruled by king of hearts
Poets, writers
Thinkers, philosophers
Are bombastically high on own
effervescence but scant
on substance


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